“Oh,” Alice whispered, imagining the horrible scene when the Durands received the news that Stout had claimed Addie had been accidentally killed.
“Alan flat-out refused to believe Stout, though. He never stopped believing Addie could be alive, even on his death bed,” Dylan said quietly. She was glad he didn’t comment when she looked away and furtively wiped at a tear. For a moment, they didn’t speak as Alice struggled to calm herself.
“My whole point is,” Dylan continued somberly after a moment, “why should Avery Cunningham go along with the moneyman’s plan to get rid of Addie? Between potential blackmail, ransom, and reward money, she was a precious commodity.”
“But Cunningham never admitted he was hired by someone, did he?”
“No. He denied it, but in the same sly way he used to deny that he had anything to do with the kidnapping for all those years. I started to recognize when he was lying.”
“If it were true that they were hired for the job, why wouldn’t Cunningham just confess? He was dying and admitted to the kidnapping. What would it matter to him at that point?”
“Again, I don’t know exactly. It could be any number of things. It’s possible whoever hired him had some kind of hold on Cunningham or a family member. We’ll never know for sure. I think it was some combination of the fact that Cunningham wanted to see himself as a misunderstood hero—a sort of scoundrel with a heart of gold—and that he actually did feel some twisted sense of liking or loyalty toward Sissy, Addie, or both. He was a convicted murderer. He was going to die in prison, and knew it. Exposing who had hired him for the kidnapping and possibly murder wouldn’t get him anything substantial. Plus, if he confessed that he’d been hired by someone, it might bring into question his motives for keeping Addie alive. Had he kept Addie alive to blackmail whomever hired him? If people questioned his motives, then how could Cunningham continue to tell himself that he’d been a decent man, even a hero, for one brief flashing moment in his life? How could he claim any worth when he met his maker? People lie to others and the world for much less motivation,” he finished grimly.
Alice leaned back on the couch. “You really did get to know Cunningham,” she said, stunned by his concise knowledge of the psychological workings of the criminal’s mind.
He grimaced. “It wasn’t pleasant, listening to that asshole go on about himself. I had to make myself what he needed: an avid listener to his bravado. He was a slimy, dangerous braggart,” Dylan muttered, his mouth pressed into a hard line.
“And yet you went like clockwork to visit him in prison,” Alice said softly. “Thank you.”
He rubbed the side of his head distractedly, brushing off her praise. “I was worried about telling you all this. I know it must come as a shock, that Cunningham knew Sissy.” He exhaled heavily and leaned back next to her, their shoulders touching.
“It does and it doesn’t,” she said hollowly. “Does it surprise me that Sissy would associate with scum like Avery Cunningham or that she would take me in under such . . . sleazy circumstances? No. Not really. She collected people all the time. She liked having all those people addicted to her product, pulling up to her trailer day and night, knocking on her door. Needy people. Desperate. Sissy didn’t do relationships in the classic sense of give and take, but she loved having people seek her out. Dependent on her. She was a born drug dealer. She probably thought she’d hit the jackpot taking in a child, having something so completely at her mercy. Another human being who would be”—her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath—“utterly dependent on her to survive.”
Dylan winced and shut his eyes.
ELEVEN
For a moment, they sat in silence. It took Alice a moment to comprehend what she was feeling. Everything she’d said to Dylan was true, but it didn’t stop the hurt that went through her: a terrible, cringing shame. This had been the reason she hadn’t allowed herself to question how she’d ended up with Sissy. She’d been unconsciously fending off this pain.
If one of Sissy’s whacked-out “friends” had asked her to keep a puppy as a favor, she probably would have. Sissy could be loud, outgoing, and friendly when she wanted to be and when her latest batch of meth was particularly good. She’d have fed that puppy sporadically, bragged about how much the puppy loved her, and kicked it when it got in her way. For days on end, she’d forget the puppy even existed until it suddenly showed up in front of her blurry-eyed stare.